


The Secret Lives of Lovers

by djsoliloquy



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Communication Failure, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Sartorial Seduction, Slice of Life, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djsoliloquy/pseuds/djsoliloquy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull is a grown man, as is Dorian. Perfectly capable of deciding how to spend his nights on his own. They’ve made no vows. If Bull finds himself occupied with a prior commitment (or late night rendezvous, says a voice in the back of Dorian’s mind) well, that’s no problem of Dorian's. He has plenty to occupy his time.</p><p> </p><p>For no apparent reason, Dorian and the Iron Bull stop sleeping together. Surely just coincidence and bad timing—but what if it's something else?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Lives of Lovers

Dorian doesn’t think much of it when Bull turns down a night of mind-blowingly satisfying sex one afternoon, at least not beyond the irritation of changing plans.

“Oh. I, uh.” Bull sits up from the slouch that makes his terrible striped pants seem to go on forever. He clears his throat, and his face looks…

Dorian can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Sorry about that, Dorian,” Bull says. “Another night I’d be all yours, but...”

Dorian has no interest in excuses. Sleeping together a few times doesn’t mean they owe each other anything. Well, truthfully, it’s been more than a few times at this point. Dorian waves his palm in Bull’s direction and heads toward the bar instead. “Think nothing of it, Bull. Enjoy your evening.”

Bull’s face is awash with scars and facial scruff shifting into another odd expression, one Dorian still can’t classify. Is it narcissism to see a hint of longing in it?

The Iron Bull is a grown man, as is Dorian. Perfectly capable of deciding how to spend his nights on his own. They’ve made no vows. If Bull finds himself occupied with a prior commitment ( _or late night rendezvous_ , says a voice in the back of Dorian’s mind) well, that’s no problem for Dorian. He has plenty to occupy his time.

If Bull notices the rather sharp line of Dorian’s jaw as he leaves, ale in hand and chin held high, well, that’s also not Dorian’s problem.

 

 

It’s difficult to regret a night spent in a library, thinks Dorian.

He wouldn’t have always said so. It was a slow seduction, coming to accept study and research rather than scorning it for the whorehouse in his adolescent bid for freedom. The alcove at Skyhold is now his bastion of power, all contained within paper and skins.

He keeps a heavy stack of books near his chair, the ones currently under observation. His newest project involves deciphering and triangulating sources from several bibliographies, annotated by inept sadists determined to cause Dorian grief centuries in the future. An unexpected tragedy of time magic not working out: how he can no longer seriously entertain the possibility of meeting these scribes and putting the fear of Dorian Pavus into them.

After one too many dead-ends (ancient blood splatter, page slashed, author presumably killed mid-word), Dorian shuts all the books and sits by the window to nurse his ale.

Because he is an adult, and has absolutely nothing of which to be ashamed, he does not check his surroundings before taking up one of Varric’s books and opening to the page marked by a ribbon.

The writing is terrible. Atrocious. A rousing assault on the mind and senses, if anyone bothered to ask Dorian. At first he _wanted_ to read one, if only to educate himself. Then, to hone his quips for Cassandra ** _—_** and, since he was on better terms with Varric than she, wouldn’t it be funny if Dorian knew what happened before she did?

Dorian sometimes surprises himself with his cleverness.

He settles into the story while frost creeps over the window glass. He is nearer to the front gate than Herald’s Rest, too far to hear raucous laughter or yells, not that he’s listening for them. Below a broken tower roof, Bull’s room appears dark, unoccupied.

Not that Dorian is looking.

 

 

Bull catches him at the most inopportune moment the next time one of them propositions the other.

It drags Dorian out of a daze. He had been thinking of Bull, in fact—him bringing up the so-called _tokens_ Dorian sometimes leaves behind. On accident, naturally, yet Dorian was still treated to a low growl pleasurable against his ear, hot breath on his collarbone, _underthings and bottles and scrolls all over my floor, you **minx—**_

And if Dorian forgot himself, or his possessions, or was anything less than impeccable, what of it? Except, Bull didn’t actually seem to mind, kissing Dorian all over when he said it. Aroused, of all things. As though Dorian were enticing him intentionally with these little messes. 

Though perhaps he _had_ been on his back during that particular conversation. Stretched out in a comfortable, self-satisfied way, arms over his head. And then Bull parted his legs and matched his grin, kissing the inside of Dorian’s ankle, and then higher, higher.

Thus, Dorian lacks an air of clarity when Bull approaches him amongst the shelves and suggests they make a night of it. The invitation is a kind of apology, a wink and a pinch, letting Dorian know he can expect exceptional service.

“Busy, I’m afraid,” Dorian says. He is. The war of attrition against the bibliographers has turned in Dorian’s favor. There’s been no time for _Swords and Shields_ since the last lovely jaunt through the Hissing Wastes, like the most ill-advised family vacation imaginable. And Dorian can personally attest to some rather terrible family vacations.

“Completely booked?” says Bull. The pleased, easy smirk means the pun is intentional. As intentional as a love bite, only more painful.

Dorian groans. “Yes. Another time?”

Bull doesn’t mind in the least, damn him. He is entirely genuine as he wishes Dorian a good night. No hard feelings, he says, and Dorian glances at him to see if _that_ was intended. It’s still gentlemanly compared to Dorian’s stiff exit from the tavern.

Dorian sighs and turns back to his research. He does have work. That wasn’t _untrue_. He isn’t too disappointed to have awful fiction waiting for him later, either.

The next time he has Bull in bed, they’ll both just have a little making up to do.

 

 

The problem is, they don’t find time. One of them is always busy, and then suddenly it has been too long. Dorian knows exactly the last time they had sex, because it was over three weeks ago. It’s ridiculous. Two attractive people don’t just stop having sex when the first time, or even first several times, was _that good_.

Dorian begins to resent his empty room on nights he leaves the library early enough to warrant sleep.

Enough, he thinks at last. Enough.

It's time, Dorian Pavus decides, to _make time_.

 

 

All his momentum shatters when he sees Bull’s favorite chair sitting cold and empty against the tavern wall.

“Chief’s out,” says Krem, and how can it be so obvious to him what Dorian wanted? “Off on business, seemed important,” Krem adds over the rim of his beer, shrugging before Dorian can think to ask.

Dorian leaves. Outside the tavern, his fingers clench around Varric’s book—thoughtlessly brought along, which Varric no doubt noticed. But then, Dorian had expected to sleep in Bull’s room tonight. That realization, the certainty, is a touch too much for him to deal with.

More importantly, Dorian can’t face passing through the throne room again under Varric’s attentive eye. He’s read _Swords and Shields_. He knows what sort of conclusions tumble around in that brain.

Only the most roundabout path to the library will do: through the garden, to the second floor, and around Vivienne’s perch to the other side of the castle.

Dorian huffs as he takes the garden stairs. A handful of tourist dignitaries wisely make a path for him, and Dorian couldn’t care less for their momentary discomfort. He could have been having consistent, sensational sex for almost a month, and instead he was content with a cold bed, blighted bibliographers, and _Varric_.

It all seemed such a sensible idea at the time.

His self-directed seething cools to uncertainty. Bull was avoiding nights in equal measure, after all. Dorian never canceled purely for the sake of being disobliging, or because he didn’t _want_ it. He would trust Bull to be forthright enough to say if he wasn’t interested. But the doubt remains once Dorian acknowledges it.

There are only so many reasons for avoiding excellent sex, he ponders as he reaches the throne room’s upper walkway. And he can’t imagine Bull in most of them.

This being the case, he is more than a little surprised to walk into the Iron Bull sitting alone in Vivienne’s makeshift parlor.

Bull doesn’t see him right away, off in thought and absently bouncing his knee. His eye widens when he spots Dorian, and he stands, oh _Maker_ he stands—

Dorian’s knees go weak.

Bull is wearing an elaborate and stylish fitted jacket, deep purple and snug at his waist. Emerald and silver accent the cut, drawing the eye to where it opens at the chest, making Bull’s torso and shoulders look even more massive. This isn’t simply exquisite design. This is tailored, structured, stitched for his body. It was, literally, made for him.

Dorian’s eyes catch on the bared area of Bull’s chest, framed by all that expensive fabric. His mouth waters.

“ _Excuse_ me? What are you wearing?” Dorian asks as casually as possible. He wants to press his hands down that lush material. He wants to dig his fingers in, coil and rub himself all over Bull like a cat or worse, just prove to himself he isn't dreaming. This must be the Fade. Surely this is a high mark achievement for desire demons everywhere.

Bull coughs. “Orlesian jacket. Vivienne’s been taking measurements and adjusting around… dancing lessons. Been crapping out buttons and pins for a damn month.”

“A month?” Dorian blinks. “Is this where you’ve—”

They both stop and straighten at the sound of heels coming up the stairs.

“Dorian,” Vivienne says when she reaches them. “Oh yes, the emerald will do nicely,” she adds, looking at Bull's figure. The next words are clearly meant for Dorian. “What do you think of him, my dear? I would value your opinion.”

Dorian swallows. If Krem guessed his thoughts at a look, Vivienne probably smelled it on him from the stairwell. He holds the book innocently behind his back. “Truly? On what matter?”

Astounding, that his voice does not betray him.

Vivienne takes a turn around Bull, testing the hang of the jacket. “I planned to order him an eye-patch in gold,” she says as though she had not heard him, “but what do you think of silver, to compliment?”

Dorian, meanwhile, has forgotten how to breathe.

After a pause to clear his throat, he says, “The gold, I think. Amethysts inlaid?”

“With lyrium, yes. I had the exact thought.” Vivienne touches Bull’s arm. “Thank you, darling. That should be all for fittings.”

Bull nods. “Thanks, ma’am.”

Dorian expects to be dismissed, but instead Vivienne takes several swatches and leaves for business of her own, heading toward Josephine’s office.

For a long moment, Dorian and Bull are silent.

“I'm very,” Dorian begins. He coughs again. Oh, Maker. “Surprised.”

“That was the idea,” Bull says with a sigh that moves his chest in distracting ways. “This has pretty much been me for a couple weeks. Dancing and fittings.”

 _Dancing and fittings._ Dorian’s mind stutters. His gaze trails over Bull’s figure, becoming stuck somewhere around his waist, then his feet.

“So,” Bull continues, “Varric’s books?”

Dorian almost bites his lip. He drops his arms, holding _The Tale of the Champion_ in front of him. “It was only to find out what Cassandra was blushing over, but then I rather just. Well.”

“Got sucked in.”

“You know,” says Dorian, “I’m undecided on whether Varric actually _can’t_ think of more than two ways to describe the inside of a cave, or if it’s some intentional rebellion for—” He stops and closes his eyes, gathering his resolve. “Never mind. I should go.”

Bull holds out his hands. “Hey, now. It’s not as bad as the striped pants, is it?”

It’s too much. Dorian’s jaw clenches. He rounds on Bull, stepping toward him and staring hard through his lashes.

“As thrilling as it would be having Vivienne after my skull and all its contents,” he says, flushed, “I would rather avoid the whole _messy demise_ thing. And if I do not leave here at once, I am going pin you against that wall and tear these clothes off you, stitch by stitch with my teeth if I must.”

They stand there, chests almost touching.

“ _Oh._ ” Bull exhales, a rumbling deep in his throat. He nods at the book. “How much you got left of that?”

“Two chapters.”

“Twenty minutes,” says Bull. His breathing is carefully controlled. “Your room or mine?”

“Mine,” Dorian says. “Ten minutes.”

“I like your thinking.”

Dorian reads as he walks to his room.

 Time made.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by personal bibliography horror stories and a real blood-splattered manuscript, which I've had the fortune to handle at work. Many thanks to stas for being a darling _bae_ ta. 
> 
> Come talk sweet adoribulls to me on [tumblr](http://djsoliloquy.tumblr.com/)!


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